


Jealousy

by townshend



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townshend/pseuds/townshend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written for a prompt on the Kink Meme over <a href="http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=1268681#t1268681">here</a>. The prompt was: "Post-game, Maria and Altair part ways, etc. So Malik likes Altair, but of course, refuses to admit it under the excuse of Altair not liking men. And then one day, he finds Altair flirting with a male novice, who totally eating it up (Altair being the hunk that he is). And Malik is, of course, totally not jealous and totally doesn't want to do anything about it.</p><p>tl;dr, Altair flirts with male novice, Malik is jealous."</p>
    </blockquote>





	Jealousy

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt on the Kink Meme over [here](http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=1268681#t1268681). The prompt was: "Post-game, Maria and Altair part ways, etc. So Malik likes Altair, but of course, refuses to admit it under the excuse of Altair not liking men. And then one day, he finds Altair flirting with a male novice, who totally eating it up (Altair being the hunk that he is). And Malik is, of course, totally not jealous and totally doesn't want to do anything about it.
> 
> tl;dr, Altair flirts with male novice, Malik is jealous."

It had been three weeks since Altaïr had killed Al Mualim and freed Masyaf from his unique brand of terrorism. With it had come the Apple; the round, shimmering artefact that had so ensnared the entire community - and, in the end, had ensnared Altaïr.

Malik had to admit that the shine of the Apple had attracted him, as well - the way it had painted the sky with an image much like a map (but unlike any map Malik had seen before, and he had seen a lot) had mesmerized him - he'd never seen anything like it. Altaïr, however, seemed more than simply mesmerized. Later, after he'd finally been able to take his eyes off it, he told Malik in a hushed voice that he'd wanted to destroy it, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to, in the end. He was taken with it - so taken that Malik, awoken one night in a sweat from a dream (the contents of which he could never divulge) realized that he was jealous. Jealous of the Apple. Jealous of an inanimate object.

Running a hand through his dampened hair, Malik sat up in his bed, glancing around his humble home. This was getting ridiculous, he realized. _Altaïr could be taken with an Apple, but he will never be taken with you. Haven't you learned that by now? Can't we drop this and move on?_

It wasn't even, Malik reflected, as he realized he wasn't getting back to sleep and crossed the room to begin dressing himself, Altaïr's fault. He knew well enough that homosexuality was not only forbidden but considered by most to be morally wrong and "unnatural". Malik didn't find it so unnatural to be attracted to something more like himself than something so foreign and different (as women were), but it would be useless to argue that point with anybody, and so he kept his mouth closed on it. Even so, Altaïr was probably just "normal", "natural", heterosexual.

They'd been friends for a long time - Malik tried to count the years as he slipped into the robes, having become well-practised with dressing with one arm over the years, but he couldn't. Over the time he'd known Altaïr, Malik had never seen him being intimate, or flirtatious, or charming towards anyone, man or woman. Perhaps it was just as likely that Altaïr was uninterested in either sex, too busy bettering himself and his skills to entangle himself with something as messy as sex or relationships or, unthinkably, romance.

Regardless, it had become achingly clear to Malik that Altaïr did not love men, and he did not love Malik. That was the way it was, and he was going to have to accept that.

"So, Malik," he told himself aloud, "accept it."

Malik had been in Masyaf over the last few weeks, sending another man in his stead to man the Bureau in Jerusalem - not that there was much in the way of work to do there. With Al Mualim gone, the entire community had been thrown for a loop, and everything was in shambles. He was staying in Masyaf under Altaïr's suggestion to help him try to put everything back in order. He'd stay until his job was done, of course, and then he would go back to Jerusalem, man his post, and try his best to forget about his friend in that way.

A part of him already knew it would never work, but he could dream.

The sun had just began to peak over the horizon when Malik stepped from his small temporary home and began the walk up the mountain towards the Assassin stronghold. He needed to meet with Altaïr and make sure everything was getting squared away and see where he was needed for the day. As he approached, he could hear the clanging of steel against steel, and he smiled, fond memories flooding back suddenly. The early hours of the morning were always filled with the novice assassins practising their fighting skills. Kadar had never been a morning person, and he'd always hated it when Malik would wake him for their practise sessions, groaning and demanding a scant few more minutes of sleep before Malik would end up dragging him bodily out the door and towards the ring. Altaïr would be there sometimes, laughing, scolding Kadar for his laziness but in a playful way that would make Kadar's eyes shine in admiration and embarrassment--

Malik passed through the large, heavy wooden doors and glanced towards the practise ring, stopping suddenly in the doorway and watching. Altaïr was there, teaching a novice a fighting tactic or two.

"--Place your foot back, like this," Altaïr said, his strong voice reaching Malik easily. He moved his foot back, placing it against the ground. "Then lean back, dropping your sword arm like this."

The novice wasn't exactly getting it. Most likely, he was too nervous being taught by Altaïr, who was something of a legend, and he kept making, well, beginner's mistakes.

"L-like this?" he asked, but he nearly tripped when he tried to step back, and Altaïr shook his head, dropping his stance. He took a step closer to the novice.

"Not quite. Here..." Altaïr reached out, placing his strong hand on the novice's thigh and slowly pushing his leg back into place. Malik watched, his mouth quickly drying as he took a few steps closer, quietly, wanting to see what was happening in a little more detail. The novice flushed, his gaze shooting back up to Altaïr. Altaïr's lips were upturned in an all-too-familiar smirk, and Malik felt his heart pumping. "Like that." His voice was lower now - even standing closer, Malik could just barely catch it. Altaïr was speaking low, his face close to the novice's, his hand _still_ on the other's thigh. Malik's face flushed.

"Now," Altaïr said, "drop your arm, and lean--" He suddenly moved, standing now close behind the novice, curling his arm around and placing a hand on the boy's chest, pulling him backwards with him, leaning, bodies pressed together, "--back."

They stood like that for a moment, the novice quivering. Malik was, too - for a different reason entirely.

"There." Altaïr let go, standing back in front of him and drawing his sword. "But you must be faster than that. You don't mind it fast, do you?"

"N-no, Master." The novice seemed stiff and uncertain, but he was clearly enjoying the treatment he was getting. It was too damn early - none of the others were there yet, and Altaïr was giving this one special treatment. It made Malik's blood boil. Who was this charming man in the ring, wearing his friend's face, using his friend's voice? Out of all the time Altaïr had known him, why had he never shown this side to him?

 _Am I just unattractive?_ he thought, gauging the novice's looks. _Or is Altaïr just having fun?_

It seemed unlike him.

"Good. Let's try it." Altaïr charged forward, swinging his sword, and the novice really did make an attempt to utilize what he'd just learned - but when he went to lean back, he leaned too far, missing Altaïr's blade entirely and landing instead on his back, hard against the dirt, an audible "oof" coming out.

Altaïr was still moving, and he suddenly jumped, landing on the novice, sitting just below his stomach, legs straddling on either side. He plunged his sword into the dirt just beside the boy's face.

"If this had been a fight, I would have killed you know," Altaïr said, leaning down towards the boy, hands planted on either side of his head. "You are lucky that it is not."

"What is it, then?" the novice breathed, and Altaïr's lips curled again, about to answer him when--

"Altaïr!"

Malik's voice had come out before he'd even known he was speaking - the call had sounded strange, and foreign, and a second after it had happened Malik had to convince himself that it had, indeed, been him. Altaïr and the novice both stared at him immediately, and Malik felt himself moving, woodenly, towards the practise ring, staring the other man down.

"I-I have been looking for you. What are today's plans?"

Altaïr got to his feet gracefully, pulling his sword from the ground.

"I believe you've just ruined them, Malik," Altaïr teased, and Malik felt the familiar rage bubble up again - rage he hadn't felt for Altaïr in some time; rage he'd been sure he was rid of.

"I'm sorry?" he said, instead. "I don't follow."

"It is nothing." Altaïr glanced towards the novice, waving him off. "Practise," he commanded. "I'll be back later this week to see what you've learned."

Malik watched the novice scramble to his feet and leave with a fire in his eyes, and Altaïr must have noticed it, because he tilted his head, looking confused. "What is wrong, brother?"

What was wrong? Malik almost laughed - a bitter, short sort of scoff that wouldn't have even begun to make him feel better. _What is wrong?_ he thought. _Where to even start?_

"You shouldn't be-- consorting with your-- with students in such a way," he said, every word mechanical, coming out broken and without emotion. If he let even a little bit in now, he'd never be able to stop. "It's-- it's unspeakable, Altaïr."

"You were watching." Altaïr didn't sound surprised. "We should speak of this inside." Before they attracted more attention. Malik felt stupid and as if he'd overstepped a million little boundaries at once already.

"No," he said, before he could stop himself. "It is over. I have already said what I need to say. If you don't need any more of me, I will travel back to Jerusalem."

Altaïr looked taken aback and then confused - the conversation, from what he could see, and jumped suddenly, from a chide over how he'd handled a training session to a sudden bid to leave, when only three nights ago Altaïr had told Malik that their work in Masyaf was far from over.

"Leave?" he said, finally. "I don't understand. Things are still very far from ready here. I still need you, Malik."

Malik's face seemed to go through a flurry of different expressions in the span of just a few seconds, and it marvelled Altaïr to see (and try to read) them - his lips parted, as if hopeful; his eyebrows knitted suddenly, as if angered; his eyes dropped, as if disbelieving - or depressed, neither of which made sense. Finally, Malik managed to rearrange his expression into something Altaïr couldn't read at all - something blocked off and quiet.

"Of course," he said. "I'll get started right away. Just tell me where--" And then, almost as an afterthought, ",brother."

Altaïr could tell easily that something was wrong. He frowned, reaching out and seizing Malik's right arm just as the man turned away. Years ago, he thought, he wouldn't have dreamed of laying a hand on Malik, not after what he'd done and not on his _arm_ especially - the intact one or the one that had very little of it left. Now, he felt more comfortable - but Malik seemed has if he was sliding away very suddenly, and Altaïr couldn't let that happen. Malik was too dear a friend to lose twice.

"Malik," he said, voice firm. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing," Malik said, too quickly. "I apologize. I only woke up too soon this morning. I am feeling a bit tired. I don't mean to take it out on you."

Altaïr's lips pursed. It was a lie, and it was clear that it was - Malik had always been a poor liar, and so bad at covering his emotions that he normally didn't even attempt to. Why was he starting now?

Still, Altaïr knew that Malik was a lock that was impossible to pick - the more he would try to pry Malik open, the harder the man would clamp down - and so he relented, managing a smile towards the man, accepting the very obviously made-up excuse as fact.

"Forget it," he told Malik, letting go of his arm. "It is past us. We have much work to do, Malik. Let me show you - I discovered this last night--"

He continued talking, leading Malik up towards the building. Malik would tell him in time, if it was something truly important. If it wasn't, it would roll past them. Such was the nature of their friendship, and Altaïr wouldn't trade that for anything in the world.

Even the Apple.


End file.
